


Glove Side

by MsTracySamanthaLord



Category: Mighty Ducks (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsTracySamanthaLord/pseuds/MsTracySamanthaLord
Summary: After the final match, Julie and Gunter have a moment in the locker room
Relationships: Julie/Gunter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Glove Side

He is not supposed to be in our locker room. Especially not now. This is the time that Connie and I have to get changed – where it’s just us girls and the guys have already puppy-piled their way out, leaving the boy smell of sweat socks and other slightly sour scents that I don’t really have any interest in investigating further. 

I like the locker room when it’s like this – after a game – quiet and hushed. Even better on a day like today when we’ve won. And we didn’t just win a game, we won everything. Junior Olympic Champions. That’s us. Me. 

My hand still tingles from the sensation of Gunter’s puck hitting my glove. He hit it hard, but I caught it. Cleanly. Neatly. 

They don’t call me the Cat for nothing. 

Connie gets changed faster than I do, which makes sense because she has about forty percent less padding. I’m still wearing most of my gear when he walks in. 

He’s really not supposed to be here. 

“Julie,” he says.

Despite the heat of the locker room and the multiple layers I’ve got on and the adrenaline that’s just beginning to fade, I get a little chill down my spine. 

A good one. 

It’s the accent, I guess. The accent and the fact that he’s taller and broader and just bigger than most of the guys on our team. Charlie’s growing fast and I could see him towering over Gunter in the next year or so, but right now, all the Ducks seem like little kids next to Team Iceland. 

But I don’t feel like a little kid at all right now. In fact, the feelings I have are decidedly very, very adult. 

“Gunter,” I say. 

It’s a ridiculous name, but…

“Good game,” he says. 

He’s wearing his street clothes. At least, I assume that’s what they are. I’m guessing there’s a reason that all of Team Iceland low-key looks like a background villain in a kung-fu movie and I’m guessing that reason is their coach. 

I wonder if he owns anything that isn’t black. 

“Thanks,” I say. “You too.” 

No lies here. The game had been good. Intense. 

I’d never expected to hit the ice. 

Coach Bombay had made it clear that Goldberg was his guy. There were times when it didn’t seem fair, when I knew – I knew – I could do better. But I also knew that when it came to new talent and old talent, Coaches always went with what they were familiar with. 

“You anticipated,” Gunter says. “You knew what I was going to do.” 

Coach Bombay had. All I’d done was trust him. Hadn’t second-guessed, hadn’t hesitated. Coach Bombay said he’d go glove and so I went glove. 

All I do now is nod. 

Gunter comes all the way into the locker room, the door swinging closed behind him. 

It’s not necessarily quiet – there’s no such thing as quiet after a game like this – but the noise all seems far away, muffled and distant. 

“You’re a good goalie,” he says. 

“I’m a good player,” I say. 

He smiles. 

Whoosh. My heart goes up into my throat and then down again like it’s on a little rollercoaster. That same light-headed feeling you get when you tip forward over the top, just before you hurtle downward. 

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been aware of Gunter from the beginning. It wasn’t something I could ever say out loud, of course. We all knew that he was off-limits. That his whole team was off-limits. 

It was easy for the guys, of course. They could look at Team Iceland and only see the enemy. 

I was different.

I saw the enemy, of course, but an enemy that was tall and broad and blond and really, really handsome. 

I was used to it, of course. Being different, feeling different. You didn’t become a girl who played professional hockey without getting accustomed to being the odd woman out. 

Having Connie around made a difference – not just her presence, but the way that the guys on our team were accustomed to playing with girls. How they didn’t take issue with it. 

But that awareness of Gunter wasn’t something I could have talked about with her. I knew implicitly that when it came down to it, she’d always choose team over hormones. And whatever she had with Gee – their sweet, chaste hand-holding and dry, occasional kisses – seemed to satisfy both of them.

I’d kept my feelings to myself. Channeled that itchy, awkward feeling I got whenever I looked at Gunter into our practices and drills. I wanted to make myself so tired that I couldn’t entertain any of these disloyal feelings. 

Things were different now. I’d won. I was the victor. 

And to the victor go the spoils, or something like that. Ms. McGee had tried her best. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask. 

“Just wanted to congratulate you,” he says. 

It’s not that, of course. He congratulated me on the ice. He’d even gotten the rest of his team to shake hands with us. 

I knew some of the guys respected that – Charlie in particular. Charlie was all about good sportsmanship and he remembered things like that. Valued those kinds of overtures. 

For whatever reason, that made me feel a little better about the two of us being alone together in a locker room. The idea that Charlie – who was basically the moral compass of the team – would maybe be ok with this. 

“You play good,” I say, echoing what he said to me on the ice. 

He smiles and he shouldn’t have such a good smile for someone who plays hockey and whose coach is nicknamed “The Dentist”. 

But it’s a really, really good smile. 

He crosses the locker room, coming toward me. 

I’ve never been one to retreat. My entire job, really, is to stand still. To protect the goal. 

I’m not exactly sure what goal I’m protecting right now but as he gets closer, I realize that I’m not thinking about him as a competitor anymore. I’m not thinking of how I can block him. 

I want to let him in. 

Ridiculous, of course. I don’t know him. 

His hair is damp, and the scent of shampoo – the same kind they stock in our locker room – mingles with whatever cologne he’s put on, because of course he’s the kind of guy who wears cologne. It probably comes in a bottle shaped like a shard of ice. 

I like it, though. 

I’m still wearing my sweaty pads and most of my uniform, though I’ve taken off my jersey. My shirt is stuck to my skin and I really need a shower but I’m not moving. 

Gunter reaches out and for a moment, I think he’s going to touch my cheek or my chin, and I tilt my head upward because for a moment I think that I’d really like that, but instead he wraps his fingers around my braid. 

He lifts it, holding it in his palm as if he’s weighing it. 

“I’m not used to losing,” he says, almost curiously. 

Like he’s baffled by whatever feelings he’s having about losing. Or whatever feelings he’s not having. 

“I thought I would mind it more,” he says. 

He speaking almost exclusively to my braid. 

“I don’t like to lose,” I say. 

His eyes shift and he’s looking at me now and we’re standing really close and the locker room is totally empty and I have no idea what’s going to happen next. 

“The guys on your team-,” he says. “Do you…?”

I frown, confused. 

“You’re pretty,” he blurts out. 

I flush. It’s hot in here. Steamy. 

“You too,” I say. 

He smiles – that nice smile of his. 

“Do the guys on your team think you’re pretty?” he asks. 

I shrug, trying to be casual, which is basically impossible because as we’re speaking, Gunter has begun winding my braid around his hand, stepping closer with each loop he makes. My hair is long but it’s not that long and pretty soon we’re practically nose to nose. 

I haven’t moved, though, because I’m the goalie. 

And because I don’t know if I can. 

“They don’t…see you?” Gunter asks. 

His accent, his hesitation, the awkward cadence of his words. I like it all

“They see me,” I say. I’m whispering for no good reason. “They just see me as a teammate.” 

“Hmm,” he says. “Yes. I understand that.” 

It’s like we’re back on the ice. Like he’s facing me down, with a stick and a puck. Like I’m waiting for him to make a move. Anticipating what he’ll do. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

“I see you,” he says. 

He gives my braid a tug and the only thing left to do is kiss him.


End file.
